Good
by Dush-kins
Summary: There was a madness to Iraq, something that just wasn't quite right; but through it all, Kurdistan still wanted to believe that he was a good person. A fic on the relationship between Iraq and the region of Kurdistan, spanning the last 40 years.
1. Part 1

**A/N: **Hi there, guys ^_^ Good God, did I put a lot of effort into this one.

This is the first part of "Good.", a fic focusing on the relationship between Iraq and Kurdistan. Never heard of Kurdistan? Most people haven't. A little history lesson: the Kurdish people, who are an estimated 25 million strong, are the largest ethnic group in the world without a home state. They mostly inhabit southern Turkey, northern Iraq, western Iran and eastern Syria, with some inhabitants also living in Armenia and Azerbaijan. The Kurds were _supposed_ to have their own country after WWI, following the collapse of the Ottoman Empire; but the League of Nations, not wanting to destabilize the budding governments in Turkey, Iraq and Syria, really just turned their backs on the Kurds. In the countries in which they inhabit, they are treated as second class citizens with very few rights. But what makes Iraq's relationship with Kurdistan different is that in Iraq, the Kurds were given some level of autonomy in the pre-Saddam era, something that had never been seen before considering how they've always been mistreated. During Saddam's reign, however, the Kurds were systematically hunted and killed for apparently plotting against the government in Baghdad (bullshit allegations, obviously). Many label what happened to the Kurds in Iraq during the late 80's and early 90's as genocide.

This will not be going in chronological order: in this part alone I jump from 1969 to the early 1940's to 1993 to 1979. Despite this, however, because it isn't based strictly on history it's shouldn't be too hard to follow. Historical explanations, as always, will be in the closing note. Any questions? Ask me, I'll always answer in the next chapter! Or, if there's something that I got completely wrong, tell me about it; I'll be sure to change it.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything, least of all Hetalia.

**Good (Part 1)**

_They had tied his hands together, and blindfolded him, but Kurdistan could still feel them drop the noose around his neck. They consigned him to hell, and then the floor opened up. He fell for a short moment before the rope caught him and he sprang back up. He choked, a vein burst and blood poured from his mouth. His feet swung widely in the open space below him; he kicked the air like a drowning child would kick against the water around him in a desperate attempt to pull himself up. He clenched his eyes shut and gasped for air, but all he took in was blood. The boss and his officials laughed at him, cheering on his death._

"Are you going to die?'

"Yes. Someday, everyone will."

"And where will you go?"

"To heaven, silly."

_Iraq looked on with soulless eyes. _

_

* * *

_

"Do you think that heaven really exists, Kurdistan?"

This was what Iraq asked the should've-been Nation in the early morning hours of September 28, 1969. The room was made of the pure darkness that surrounded them both, the only source of brightness coming from the light of the moon and the stars, and Iraq's lit cigarette. Neither could sleep, it seemed, which was usual for Kurdistan but very unusual of Iraq. After spending so many years with him, Kurdistan knew who and how Iraq was. He was usually quite upbeat in character, loud and obnoxious with a slight hint of charismatic charm which made it impossible for anyone to stay angry with him for long. He always wore a smile, always laughed the loudest at the (usually serious) world meetings. Iraq always looked on the brighter side of things.

And knowing this, Kurdistan immediately noticed how Iraq's mood had taken a sudden dark turn over the past few weeks. Not even his approaching birthday seemed to lift his spirits, and frankly, Kurdistan was beginning to grow worried.

After getting over his initial shock, he quickly responded, in full confidence, "Of course heaven exists."

Iraq narrowed his eyes at his semi-autonomous state, though the look he bore couldn't be constituted as a glare, as it wasn't angry or sharp at all. He seemed withdrawn for once, his face sullen, his eyes holding this quiet kind of sadness that Kurdistan hadn't seen in Iraq since the death of his grandmother, Mesopotamia. "How do you know?"

"The book says so."

Of course, by 'the book' he meant the Qur'an.

Iraq nodded slowly. "I see." An odd air of contemplation came over Iraq's face, his eyes clouded, deep in thought. He was worrying Kurdistan more and more with each gesture he made, with each word he said. A few long moments passed by before he asked, "Do you think that heaven… is nice?"

Where in the world were these questions coming from? "I suppose so."

"Do you think, when they all die, our people will be happy there?"

'_When they all die?'_ Iraq was speaking as if they would all be going up there at once. "Yes, of course. How could they not be happy to be in Allah's presence?"

Iraq laughed in this bitter way that sounded vile to Kurdistan's ears. "Do you think they'll miss us?"

"What do you mean?"

"When they go up to heaven, do you think they'll miss us at all?"

The Kurd shrugged helplessly. "Maybe? I don't know, I doubt it. In heaven, there is no wanting. But…" he paused, trying to find the right words. "…but even in the off chance that they _do_ miss us, even a little bit, it won't be for long. We'll be reunited in the end, when we die and go to heaven ourselves."

A dark, dark look came over Iraq's face. "You speak as if we'd actually be allowed up there."

A moment of pure silence passed between the two, one that was suffocating underneath the weight of Iraq's words. Iraq's eyes were on the floor, while Kurdistan seemed frozen where he was, absolutely unmoving, his face blank and unresponsive, until finally, _finally_, he broke the silence by quietly stating, with a humble kind of certainty:

"I'm going to heaven, Iraq."

"Really?" Iraq smiled, one that was as aged and world weary as Kurdistan should've been. He turned his head to look out the window, upon Baghdad below, a capital as dangerous and unpredictable as it was dear to Iraq's heart, because that is what it was.

Kurdistan's voice rose in volume and confidence when he added, "And you're going to heaven, too!"

Iraq turned back to look at him, eyes wide, genuinely astonished. "But," Kurdistan rubbed the back of his head, a sheepish grin coming over his face. "Hopefully, that won't happen for a long while. Life is beautiful, you know? Heaven will be better, but life is still good. Let's hope that we can stay here for as long as we can."

Iraq opened his mouth to respond, but quickly shut it after thinking it over. He couldn't tell Kurdistan the truth. That was his burden, and his alone.

Iraq took a drag of his cigarette, and the two spoke no more.

* * *

He would someday be their worst boss, the most violent and destructive, one of the few humans that would be able to truthfully say that he had almost killed not one, but three Nations, and a semi autonomous region to boot. But when they first met, Saddam Hussein was only a small child running through the streets of Tikrit, dirty and malnourished and obviously abused. Kurdistan had felt sorry for him; he coerced Iraq into buying him a treat, and then he himself gave the child a few _dinars_. Kurdistan then told him that if he grew up to be a good man, a strong man, one who would not repeat the mistakes of those past, then he would definitely get see them again someday.

But the boy had taken him seriously. He only grew up to be strong; perhaps he was also good at one point, but that goodness died, suffocated under the weight of his immense power. He would invade, he would rape, and he would bring the very region who had first given him hope within an inch of his life, more than once. Kurdistan never knew (thank Allah, he never knew) but Iraq one day realized that his boss was the same little boy from all those years ago, at the very end. Only when Saddam Hussein once again became dirty, malnourished and obviously abused did Iraq finally know who he was.

* * *

"Kurdistan; you never seem to want to talk about the other Nations that you live with. Why not?"

Armenia had asked him this, sometime in the summer of 1993. Kurdistan nearly choked on his tea when she asked him this out-of-the-blue question. He set down his cup, and lightly ran his finger over the edge of the rim, round in a circle once, twice, three times. Then he answered with a simple:

"There is nothing you need to know about them."

But she would not accept that as an answer. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean exactly what I say," he replied, not lifting his head to face her.

"Well," she began, "perhaps it is true that there is no immediate _need_ for me to know about them. However… I _want _to know, especially now that you have made it clear that you don't want to speak about them. Are they really that bad?"

Kurdistan stood quiet for a few moments, his eyes glued on the cup of tea before him. He could feel Armenia's gaze on him, her dull and endless eyes unwavering, and he felt them like daggers. _Daggers thrust into his back, twisted, and then dragged down, through flimsy muscle and brittle bone, destroying his spinal cord and paralyzing him completely._ His eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them back.

"You know what they're like," he murmured, almost too softly to be heard. But Armenia caught it.

"Yes, yes, I do. I know that Iran thinks too highly of himself and must make you wait on him hand and foot. I know of Syria's negligence and indifference towards you. I know that Turkey is the devil incarnate… you _know_ that I've experienced his cruelty firsthand…"

_The Armenian Genocide,_ Kurdistan quickly reminded himself in-between her words. He had forgotten that she'd been a victim of it, too.

"…and I know of Iraq's violent temper. Big deal; everyone knows about those things. No one knows what _you_ know, though."

For a brief moment, the possibility of Armenia acting as a spy for Russia flashed through his mind, but once again, he had to remind himself that the Soviet Union was gone. Armenia had no reason to act as a spy for that terrible man up north anymore. "You got everything just about right," he began; it was clear now that she was not about to give up on this until he told her _something_. "Iran doesn't really make me wait on him, though. He orders me around, yes, but he's too self-sufficient to just keep me as a servant. I think he just keeps me around as a whipping boy; whenever something goes wrong, something within him that he cannot blame on Israel or America, then he blames it on me, and everything is alright for him. Syria is negligent, and indifferent, and she mostly ignores me, but I don't really have to spend that much time with her, so it doesn't matter. Turkey _really_ likes to keep me down, probably just to satisfy himself. I know there's still a little bit of the Ottoman Empire within him, a part of himself that he still isn't ready to let go of. He just wants to be in charge of someone, I think. He has been getting better lately, though."

Kurdistan finished there. He had given her information on three of the four, a decent amount. Maybe she wouldn't notice how he left out...

"But what about Iraq?"

Just the name of that country sent a chill up his spine, and without thinking he brought his hand up to touch the white ribbons of gauze and bandage that were wrapped around his neck. It was summer, but he was dressed in layers, to hide his scars, to conceal just how thin he had become and to pull attention away from his neck and the tell-tale bandages. Armenia hadn't seen anything. Only when he touched them did she notice they were there.

She did not apologize. She did not say anything, but only acted. She got up, rounded the table and wrapped her arms around his thin shoulders, pulling him in so that his face rested on the crook of her neck. And it was only when he noticed how wet her shirt was did he realize he was crying.

She'd done it on purpose. He never knew.

* * *

"So! I hear you've had a revolution. How'd that go?"

Iran glared at Iraq, half-heartedly. He knew that the other Nation was teasing him. Iraq had a reputation for kicking other countries when they were down. "Yeah, I had a revolution. What's it to you?"

Iraq scrunched his nose as if he smelled something awful. (Perhaps, it was the stench of theocracy?) "Islamic Republics are icky."

"Y-You're icky!" Iran sputtered.

Iraq turned and began to walk away, but not before taking a look over his shoulder and sneering, "Whatever you say, _Islamic Republic of Iran._"

Iran picked up a nearby stone and threw it at him, though his aim was so bad that he missed him by a few good inches.

* * *

Kurdistan was the first to notice America's rather _strong_ feelings for Iraq.

He noticed it when he first studied the way the two hugged. Iraq was never one much for physical contact, but during those days he allowed America to do anything he wanted to him. The Western Nation wrapped his arms around Iraq slowly, constricting them around the other Nation with a gentleness that was almost hesitant. He placed one hand in between his shoulder blades, and the other on his lower back, bringing Iraq close enough so that their pelvises were touching. America closed his eyes, buried his face in Iraq's neck, and took a few deep breaths, almost as if he were relishing in breathing in Iraq's scent (which consisted of cigarette smoke and gunpowder). He tilted his head a bit, and kissed Iraq's neck, once, twice, before letting him go and holding him at arm's length. Iraq had his back turned to Kurdistan, so the semi-autonomous region could not see his facial expression, whether it was one of numbed shock (much as his own was) or of congenial understanding, or perhaps even one of mutual desire. But Kurdistan could see America's face, saw the gentle smile that it held, and he knew at once that the Westerner felt something much deeper than friendship for Iraq.

After that, he began to pick up on other things. The slight blush that would appear on America's face whenever Iraq grinned at him. How America always praised everything that Iraq did with genuine sincerity. How America always helped him with everything, from ammunition to aid to low-interest loans. How America always acted as if he were gazing at something beautiful whenever he watched over Iraq as he slept…

And especially in the way America always defended all of Iraq's actions, even when he was dead wrong.

"You still love me, right, Iraq?"

Kurdistan was looking on from afar when America asked this, sometime in 1987. The Land of the Free was staring down at his shoes, not wanting to look up and see a whole new Iraq. His only ally in the Middle East was losing the war against Iran, being beaten by a country with only two major allies. America had been the one who instigated Iraq's rage towards his neighbor, the one who encouraged him to beat the egotistical Persian and put him in his place once and for all. America had been his biggest supporter, the one who always whispered in his ear that he was right and good, even when Iraq himself knew that he wasn't. America had been the one who brought him to this place, and Iraq had every right to be angry with him.

But he wasn't. "Of course I still love you, America!"

The Westerner's head shot up, and he saw the grey bags under Iraq's eyes, saw how thin he had become, saw the cuts and burses that now desecrated the once blemish-free Nation. But he also saw the smile on Iraq's face, one that was as wide and bright as always, almost painful to look at in conjunction with his battered state. He continued, "Did you know… did you know that when I first allied myself with you, all the countries that I had grown up with and called my family suddenly turned their backs on me? They all abandoned me, because if I was friends with you, then I couldn't be with any of them. But I didn't mind. I always figured that as long as I had you, then everything would turn out okay in the end. I knew that with you, I'd never go without, and I'd always have a friend there to back me up. So what, you gave me some bad advice once or twice? Nobody's perfect, not even the hero of the story. I _do_ love you, America. I always have, and I don't think I could ever stop, even if I wanted to."

America seemed stunned after Iraq finished, as was Kurdistan. Iraq _never_ revealed those deep-hearted feelings of his, not to anyone, not ever. Kurdistan had the irking suspicion that he had just witnessed Iraq do it for the first time. The Middle Eastern Nation stood there, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, blushing deep scarlet as he waited for the other to respond.

And America did respond, though not by words. He pinned Iraq to the wall behind him, and finally did what he'd always wanted to do to Iraq: he kissed him. All the while, America's hands roamed Iraq's body freely, caressing shoulders, his arms, his sides, his ass; and Iraq kept on blushing, making no such explicit gestures in return. He was still not completely used to America's obvious affection towards him; however, he did not deny him by any means. When America finally let him go, Iraq chuckled, a little breathlessly. "You'll always be there for me, right? You'll always be on my side?"

"Of course," America assured Iraq, holding him close. "Of course."

Kurdistan smiled, one that was small, a ghost of what would have otherwise been a grin, if he hadn't been so disillusioned by life at that point. But through it all, he did feel a spark of genuine happiness for Iraq. He knew that America would always be on his side, no matter what. Iraq could feel free to do what he wanted, always knowing that he'd have the world's leading superpower as his biggest supporter, and—

Kurdistan didn't know if that was a good thing or not, but through all his anger and sadness, _he_ was still good. He still felt happy for Iraq and his good fortune.

A few weeks later, Kurdistan went up in flames.

* * *

In March of 1975, Kurdistan woke in the middle of the night to screaming and sobbing, cries only he could hear. His eyes shot open and he jumped out of bed almost immediately, any drowsiness that he may have felt effaced by the obvious harm to his people that was going on somewhere in his region. He sprinted down the stairs two at a time, and ran out the door with a frightening kind of ferocity. He dashed out of his urban district and into the rural area of Iraqi-Kurdistan. With an innate compass within him, he instinctively knew where the screams of terror were coming from: the farms owned by the Barzani tribespeople. He ran with all his might, as fast as his bare feet would carry him, because even though he wasn't an independent Nation, he knew that he still had to protect his people.

And when he finally got there, he saw just what it was that had woken him up that night, and despite his history, he could not believe his eyes.

Iraqi troops—_Iraq's troops—_were rounding up his people, mostly his men, by the truckload. His women were screaming, begging the soldiers not to take away their husbands, their father's, their sons. Children clung desperately to their fathers, sisters to their brothers. The soldiers tore them away from each other without a second thought, grabbing the men and shoving the women and children away, kicking them when they fell so they wouldn't be able to get back up. The only thing that Kurdistan could make sense of in the midst of the chaos was that, for whatever reason, the only males that were being left behind were the little boys.

Kurdistan ran up in front of the first truck that was set to leave. He held his arms out and planted his feet into a firm stance. The driver honked his horn at him, and when he did not budge, the driver stuck his head out the window and hollered out, "Get out of the way, kid!"

But the embodiment of the Kurdish people silently refused, making no other physical gesture than slightly narrowing his eyes. The driver then pulled his upper body back inside the truck, and slammed his foot on the gas pedal.

Though, to be honest, Kurdistan was expecting nothing less. In fact, he ran straight towards the oncoming truck.

Just as they were to collide, Kurdistan jumped up and landed on the front hood of the car. He held onto the rear-view mirror with one hand and to one of the window wipers with the other as the driver swerved from left to right, desperate to get the obviously-insane kid off of his hood and out of his field of vision. But he wouldn't budge.

Kurdistan pulled himself up until he was close enough to the drivers open window to get a good shot at him. More preoccupied with the oncoming Kurd approaching his window than with his driving, he crashed into one of the modest homes that made up the Barzani village. Kurdistan was thrown to the side in recoil, rear-view mirror in one hand and windshield wiper in the other. The should've-been Nation groaned, while behind him, the driver of the now ruined vehicle jumped out of the car and staggered towards him.

"YOU!" he roared. "Do you realize what you've done?"

His rage renewed, Kurdistan got up in one fluid movement and asked the man before him, "I should be asking you the same thing! You _traitor!"_

The man scoffed indignantly. "Traitor? To whom? I'm Iraqi!"

"You've betrayed your own people! We're Kurds, but we're still_ just_ as Iraqi as you! How _dare_ you?"

"No." The man said, shaking his head. "No. We—my men and I—_we're_ the true people of this land. You wastes of life shouldn't be here. I say, Iraq for Iraqi's! And you know who else think that way?" The man smiled cruelly at Kurdistan. "Our soon-to-be-President, Saddam Hussein."

Kurdistan took a step back, eyes growing wide. The man continued, "Someday, this world will be free of the Kurds, spawns of worthlessness not worthy of Allah's grace! You will all see what our creator _truly _thinks of you on judgment day, when he damns you and your wrenched race to _hell!_"

"Really?" Kurdistan smiled bitterly. "I was _born_ in hell. And it's people like you who will have to someday answer to Allah, not me. But perhaps you won't have to wait, after all."

Kurdistan looked past the driver, and the other man followed his gaze and looked back—and there stood the people he'd been about to take away, all looking as angry as their region, if not more so. Kurdistan would've liked to have stood around to see what they did to that hateful man, but he knew that he was not finished. He had only saved but few dozen men out of Barzani's _eight thousand_. He still had a long way to go. He ran back into the chaos.

The rest of that fateful night was a blur to Kurdistan. He fought tooth and nail to save the Barzani Kurds, with the help of all of his people but mostly his women. They chased trucks and tackled soldiers and sacrificed their bodies for the sake of protecting the small clan from becoming a band of widows and orphaned children. But in the end, the soldiers opened fire on them all, and had Kurdistan been human he would've died that night along with so many other people.

He woke up in a hospital bed a few days later, where some doctor who was not aware of what he was told him that it was a miracle that he'd survived three bullet wounds to the head with no outstanding long-term effects. His first visitor was Iraq, soon followed by Saddam Hussein and some of his officials. Iraq scolded him for his actions.

"What were you thinking? Are you _insane?_ You got so many people killed the other night! None of them would have died if you hadn't intervened!"

And perhaps Kurdistan would've agreed with him, had it not been for what that man had told him.

_You wastes of life shouldn't be here… and you know who else thinks that way? Our son-to-be-President, Saddam Hussein._

"Mr. Saddam," Kurdistan began in his hoarse voice, "where are they?"

"Who's 'they'?"

The man was unbelievable. "My people. The Barzani men. Where did you take them?"

Saddam Hussein smiled. _"'The male is born to be slaughtered.'_ That's one of your proverbs, isn't it? It fits this situation strikingly well."

Iraq jumped away from his future boss as if the man had some sort of contagious disease. "You did _what?_"

Kurdistan began to shake, his hands trembling terribly as the gravity of those words pressed down on him, squeezed life out of him. Eight thousand gone. Before he could suppress it, he let out a chocked sob. _"No!"_ he cried out, shaking his head wildly. He clutched his chest, his very heart in pain. Kurdistan heaved out another sob, a wrenched sound that somehow did not belong on his lips.

As Iraq futilely tried to comfort his grief-stricken region, Saddam and his men left Kurdistan's hospital room as calmly as they had entered. Neither noticed their leave, and Iraq soon realized that Kurdistan could not be comforted. But even so, it wouldn't have felt right to just sit there and do _nothing_. So he sat at the edge of the other's hospital bed and just held the should've-been Nation as he cried for what seemed like hours.

Later, when the sky was dark and Kurdistan was physically unable to continue crying, Iraq, eyes glazed as he stared at the ceiling, asked, "Are you going to die?"

"Yes," Kurdistan mumbled. "Someday, everyone will."

"And where will you go?" Iraq prompted, waiting for the desired answer.

A ghost of a smile graced the Kurd's lips as he replied, "To heaven, silly."

At the very least, it was something to look forward to.

* * *

**A/N:** Notes time! C:

Saddam Hussein was born in 1937, and raised in Tikrit, Iraq. By most accounts, he was mistreated as a child, and was beat often at the hands of his step-father. I just couldn't get the idea out of my mind, him meeting Kurdistan and Iraq as a child… and they Iraq only realizing it once his old boss was put on trial.

Unlike in the countries where they have major inhabitants (Iraq, Iran, Syria, and Turkey), the Kurds were always treated fairly well in Armenia and Azerbaijan. As for the way I had Kurdistan describe his relationships with the four countries he usually hangs out with… I tried to keep them accurate.

Iran's revolution was in 1979… it's one of the reasons (a smaller reason, but still a reason) why Iraq went to war with Iran. Iraq also acts all disgusted around Iran because Iraq has always been more of the more secular Nations in the Middle East (meaning that, politics and religion have never mixed as much as they have in other Middle Eastern Nations).

As for America's relationship with Iraq… um, UST? America/Iraq, anyone? I know that plenty of you probably disagree with me, but to me, when I've looked at America and Iraq's history together (yes, it does go before 1991), their relationship has always seemed sort of… star-crossed, really. (But things aren't good between them, not by a long shot, as we all know. Things for them take a turn for the worst next chapter…)

As for what happened in Barzani… it was the first attack in Saddam Hussein's campaign against the Kurdish people. He had Iraqi troops attack the village for no reason, basically destroy it, and round up about 8,000 men and boys for interrogation, accusing them of "crimes against the government". This was in response to Kurdish insurgents who's main goal was (still is, actually) to succeed from Iraq (and Turkey and Iran and Syria) and form their own country, Kurdistan. However, the majority of these people had nothing to do with the insurgency, and this wouldn't be the last time such an event occurred. It would happen again and again, with more frequency towards the late 80's and early 90's, and such senseless killing is just about the prime example of "genocide".

As for Iraq and Kurdistan's relationship… make of it what you will. All I'm going to say is that Kurdistan probably suffers from some major Stockholm Syndrome (when a person feels inexplicitly feels sympathy towards someone who's hurt them immensely).

REVIEW. Por favor? ^_^


	2. Part 2

**A/N:** Part 2! Don't have much to say for this opening note, for once. I guess I should just **warn!** you all about the non-con America/Iraq in this part… it's the 2003 invasion, obviously. As always, don't like, don't read.

**Disclaimer:** If I didn't own it for pt. 1, what makes you think I'd own it for pt. 2?

**Good (Part 2)**

Iraq focused on his boss' lips specifically as his boss told him of his plan of retaliation against Iran for attacking their ambassador.

"An invasion is essential to insure national security. We must show Iran that we won't take this lying down."

Iraq just _loved_ how the man always used the pronoun 'we' whenever he was about to make a potentially unfavorable decision. He used it as a psychological tool, one meant to unify and create a sense of shared understanding. As if he would be fighting on the front lines with the Iraqi troops. With Iraq himself.

"Iran's weapons are far more advanced. This is a fact that cannot be ignored. However, in just a few months, our nuclear facilities should be up and running at full capacity. If necessary, we may have to obliterate Iran to get our point across."

Iraq closed his eyes, and prayed with all his might that every word said by the man before him would turn into dust.

* * *

"So, Kurdistan… did Iraq tell you what he's planning to do to me next?"

Iran asked this in a nonchalant tone, as if he were asking Kurdistan about the weather. The two walked about Tehran casually, everything still intact in the capital, the people around them acting normally as if their country wasn't at war at all. After a few moments of silence, Iran added in, "Is he planning on attacking Tehran?"

But Kurdistan would not say a word.

A few weeks later, he was in Damascus, with Syria. He immediately knew that she wanted something as soon as she opened her mouth and actually _said _something to him:

"Where's Iraq going to strike next?"

Kurdistan gave the female Nation the world's tiniest eye roll; of course, as the first of Iran's only two allies, she would be interested in knowing that. Her choice to support Iran never ceased to baffle him—why couldn't she just go with the majority and join Iraq's cause? Couldn't she see that Iran was clearly in the wrong?

When he didn't answer, Syria narrowed her eyes and told him with the upmost certainty, "I know that you know."

In reality, no, Kurdistan did _not_ know what Iraq had planned. But even if he did, he wouldn't tell her.

"Does he want to attack me?" she didn't wait for him to answer before crossing her arms and declaring, "Tell him to attack me, if he wants. I'm not afraid of him."

Kurdistan shrugged. "Okay."

Syria roughly grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him so that he would face her. "Why do you like him so much? The only good thing he's ever done for you is give your region some political autonomy. Woo hoo, big deal. You don't have to go protecting him at every turn because of it."

"My reasons for protecting Iraq are _none_ of your business," he hissed.

Syria shrugged in indifference. "Alright, fine. You do what you want. But don't come crying to me when that son of a bitch stabs you in the back, just like he always does to everyone. You aren't special; Iraq _will_ get you in the end. He _will _hurt you. And you'll have no one to blame but yourself."

* * *

Everywhere Kurdistan looked was unclear, clouded by chemical gas. The source of his pain was all around him.

The should've-been Nation hacked, wheezed. Tried to take in a breath of air, but found that he could not. It was as if the gasses themselves possessed hands which wrapped around his neck, choking him, squeezing life out of him. He tried to scream, but could only make pathetic-sounding squeaks, his lungs lacking the oxygen needed to produce anything louder.

He stumbled, fell down to his hands and knees. Coughed, rasped. Out in the distance, he could hear bodies dropping. A few at first, but then many more.

Blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth, and the world began to spin. The last thought had to do with what Syria had told him all those years ago:

"_Iraq will get you in the end. He will hurt you. And you'll have no one to blame but yourself."_

_Why did she think that I'd blame myself?_ He hazily thought._ I'm not that stupid._

And then he went under.

* * *

"NO, PLEASE, AMERICA! FOR THE LOVE OF ALLAH, DON'T DO THIS!"

It was the fall of 2003, and Kurdistan was held up in some closet, sitting on the floor, knees draw to his chest. He was trembling, flinching with every blow that America dealt to Iraq. The only think which separated him from the two other Nations was the wooden door of the closet, which to Kurdistan suddenly seemed so flimsy and unstable and weak and—

There was a large thud, a yelp of pain, and Kurdistan knew that Iraq had just been thrown onto the floor. For all the commotion America was making, when the world's only leading superpower spoke, his voice was deathly calm, like a rapist or mass murderer. Or like that of an entire Nation scorned. "Iraq…"

"NO, PLEASE! I'M BEGGING YOU, DON'T DO THIS TO ME! I'M TELLING YOU THE TRUTH! _I SWAER I'M TELLING YOU THE TRUTH!"_

America laughed. There was a demented edge to it. "But Iraq, didn't you once tell me that you were a fantastic liar? That you could look people in the eye when you did it? You told me so yourself, unless you were lying about that, too."

A couple of more blows, ones which only seemed to grow more violent as Iraq continued to beg. Tears gathered at the corners of Kurdistan's eyes, and suddenly his world seemed very small, confined to the closet he was trapped in and what was going on immediately beyond it.

After a while, Iraq fell silent, and America asked tauntingly, "Hey, hey, Iraq? You still awake? C'mon, you didn't pass out on me, did you?"

A moment of silence, and then Iraq made a throaty sound that made it clear to Kurdistan that America had grabbed him by the throat. "Oh, you're still awake. That's good. So, I was gonna ask, where's Kurdistan hiding?"

Said regions heart clenched like a fist, and for a moment, the world was still. Then, Iraq rasped:

"America… he… he isn't at fault. He never… was. P-Please, America, if you're gonna punish anyone, punish me! I'm the only one who should suffer! I can take it! Just please… _please_, America…" and suddenly Iraq's voice became breathy, as if he were trying to coerce America into something, "don't take it out on him. You're mad at _me_. Take it out on _me_."

The other Nation stood quiet for a few moments, everything deathly quiet. Then, a sharp slap pierced through the air, and America hissed, "You're such a fucking slut, you know that?"

Kurdistan heard something rip, the ruffling of clothing. As he stripped Iraq, America continued his tirade, his voice growing in volume as he went on. "Not only are you a terrorist, a failing state, an extremist, and a barbarian, but you're a goddamned slut on top of it all! Man, what the hell did I ever see in _you?"_

The few moments of silence that followed were brutally interrupted by the loud moan that came from America's lips, one which Kurdistan almost didn't hear against the tortured scream that ripped away from Iraq. Kurdistan stood in one fluid motion and gripped the doors handle, not thinking. He turned it, for better or worse—

But it was locked.

He tried again and again to but couldn't get the door to open, before he remembered that the particular closet that he was in locked from the outside. And America obviously wouldn't have locked it, and there was no one else left in the house, which could only mean that...

It could only mean that the door was malfunctioning, locking on its own. Because, surely, Iraq couldn't have, _wouldn't have_ done such a thing. Kurdistan cared for Iraq but knew that his feelings weren't exactly reciprocated, and besides that, Iraq was selfish. He wouldn't have locked him in, wouldn't have protected him in that way; he would've been too preoccupied with his own survival.

Kurdistan backed away from the door and sank down to the ground. He had no choice but to remain where he was, but he could still hear all that went on beyond the closet door with frightening clarity: how America quickly set his pace, grunting shortly with each thrust, moaning demeaning and humiliating things to the Nation that he had once loved. Iraq, on the other hand, lost all of his words; he cried out with each thrust, began screaming once the more powerful Nation on top of him began to pick up his pace, slamming into him without mercy.

"_Look at me!" _America suddenly barked. Kurdistan instinctively opened his eyes. "Don't give me that look! _Don't! _You brought this upon yourself!"

Iraq wailed loudly in response, one cry which gave way to sobbing, something so obscenely uncharacteristic of him. Out of all the years that he'd known him, Kurdistan had never seen or heard Iraq cry, not from pain nor sadness. Was this his breaking point? Did it take being beaten and raped by the Nation he loved to finally bring Iraq to tears? "We could've had a good life together, you hear me? I _loved_ you. I really did! You could've _always_ had me on your side! But what did you do instead? You got greedy, you pissed it all away, you—"

"You're… wrong!" Iraq managed to say in-between thrusts. "The boss… made me… invade Kuwait… made me hurt… hurt Kurdistan! Saddam… the boss… you… you supported!"

"Shut _up!"_ the world's only leading superpower screamed. He began to penetrate Iraq with a maddening speed, but the smaller Nation still managed to say: "You… did… this to… me! You… you _ruined me!_"

"You didn't have to listen!" he screamed defensively, as if trying to justify himself for all but appointing the Middle East's very own madman to rule Iraq. "You could've told me what he was doing and I would've helped you get rid of him! But you didn't, and I think," a particularly hard thrust, if Iraq's pained moan told was anything to go by, "I think you _liked_ it, what he did. What was it, Iraq? Did he fuck you like this? Did it turn you on?"

_No, _Kurdistan thought. _If there was one thing that guy never did, was rape Iraq. He tortured me, he raped scores of human women, but never did anything to Iraq himself._

"Or maybe," America mused, "Maybe he didn't fuck you like that. Maybe he just fucked with your head."

"_Iran must fall. He thinks that he can keep you underneath his boot and use you just as his grandfather did to Mesopotamia. Mesopotamia… I believe, Iraq, that your grandmother would have approved of what you are about to do."_

"_Kuwait is stealing your oil! Conspiring against you! That false-state should have always been living in your house to begin with. To hell with what Jordan and Saudi Arabia and America say—they should not be meddling with our affairs to begin with."_

"_They all deserved this, you know. They all wanted to hurt you. Kurdistan isn't as innocent as he looks. He wants to kill you."_

"Look at you! You are so _weak_! Even now! You're just lying here and _taking _it, like the slut that you are! Kurdistan… he'd _definitely_ put up more of a fight. Maybe I'll take him ne— _LIE STILL!"_ he screamed in response to Iraq's sudden thrashing.

"_America! Don't! Please!"_

"SHUT UP!" America screamed, all of his anger and rage erupting from him in one grand flourish. "_YOU DESERVE THIS!"_

All of his other options exhausted, Iraq began to blurt out a harried and desperate prayer in Arabic. The Islamic prayer rushed out of his mouth in a harried frenzy, as if the very words themselves were eager to free themselves from their owner's tortured body, ready to deliver his plight to the Almighty.

In his mind's eye, he saw it: how America drew his hand up and stroked Iraq's face in an almost loving gesture, as if he hadn't just invaded the other's vital regions. As if Iraq had been consenting. "No one's ever gonna love you like I used to. No one. I loved you, with all my heart, my soul, my _mind_… even after you invaded Kuwait and we went to war. I never stopped loving you, not once, but then… you…" his voice cracked. "I thought you felt the same. Why did you help those guys do that to me? Why do you always have to lie about everything? Why… why do you fuck over everyone you love?"

A few moments of silence passed, before America got to his feet, and ordered Iraq, in the gentlest of voices, to get on his knees. Iraq did not obey (his eyes were glazed, his mind was far away—Kurdistan knew this, he didn't know how, but he did) and America repeated his demand, before sighing and stating in a louder-than-necessary voice, "Gee, I wonder where Kurdistan is…"

Iraq scrambled to his knees at that, while the region he was defending finally snapped out of his own shock and scooted as far away as he could from the door, until he was completely hidden behind rows of clothes and shoeboxes. And when he could _still_ hear America's moaning, he closed his eyes, covered his ears with his hands and hummed quietly to himself, and waited. He thought of other things, like clouds and rain and what would be the end result of this invasion. He was almost certain that he would survive; Turkey and Iran never expressed much liking for him, but when he had needed them the most, they'd been there to take him and his people in. However, Iraq had _no one_. How would he ever live through this? He was already so close to collapsing…

Kurdistan's heart beat painfully in his chest. How could America do this? Why would he pick on an already dying Nation? He had so clearly loved Iraq at one point; how could that love just disappear? How could he go from blushing whenever Iraq smiled at him to brutally invading his vital regions?

In the mist of his thinking, his mind drifted back to something Iraq had said earlier; he had mentioned not having anything to do with certain 'attacks'. He mentioned how much Iraq lied to everyone. America mentioned some other things as well, but Kurdistan's mind was still reeling from all that he'd been forced to hear, all that he'd involuntarily envisioned in his mind's eye, and he could not keep a coherent thought for more than a few moments before it slipped away.

Kurdistan sat there, hands over his ears, for what seemed like an eternity. It could have been minutes, hours, _days_ for all he knew. But he didn't move, didn't dare. Only when he felt someone shaking him did he finally open his eyes.

"Kurdistan?"

Iraq's hoarse voice resonated within him, and the region's eyes shot open, and he saw that Iraq's face was right in front of his. In the darkness that surrounded them, he could not make out the fresh wounds and bruises on the other Nation; all he could see was the smile on Iraq's face, one that was tired and withdrawn, and yet also laced with a serene kind of happiness. "I've been looking for you everywhere. You were here the whole time?"

He nodded. Iraq's already delicate smile faltered "A-And you were asleep? The _entire_ time?"

And Kurdistan gave the answer that he had to give: "Yes."

Iraq breathed what appeared to be a sigh of relief. "Well, c'mon. Let's get you into bed. Did you hear the news?" Iraq took his region by the hands and pulled him up to his feet. "America invaded me. My people are freakin' out, scared out of their minds… yours are still safe, though. I made sure of that."

Kurdistan tried to act surprised by the news of the invasion, and then upon finding out that for once, his people weren't the one's being targeted. "But why would America invade you?" he cried, playing dumb.

"Eh… truth is, I don't really know. It has something to do with 9/11, and nuclear weapons, and the boss. Oh! Speaking of which, the boss abandoned us. Him and his entire family split a little after America came. They left us all alone." Iraq scoffed. "What a bunch of pussies."

"R-Right…"

"Hey, Kurdistan… don't worry, okay? Everything's gonna be fine. America will soon realize that I wasn't involved in 9/11, and that I don't have any more nuclear bombs, and that Saddam is out of our lives for good. America's not as dumb as he looks; he'll figure it out, and fast. Just watch, he'll be out of our hair by the end of the month."

* * *

"No!"

Kurdistan shouted this in the fall of 1991. He had his arms outstretched, brow furrowed, a determined look in his eyes. Behind him lay an unconscious Iraq. And in front of him…

In front of him stood a coalition of 33 countries, led by America. The Land of the Free, soon to be the world's only superpower, smiled sweetly at Kurdistan, as if he, the adult, now had to deal with the antics of some child. Kurdistan could plainly see the impatience that lay just underneath America's fake façade, that condescending smile, and beyond that still, he saw something much worse. Anger? Fury? Rage? The depth of America's emotion had no end, and it scared Kurdistan. It almost felt as though he were staring into a black hole.

"What do you think you're doing, Kurdie Birdie."

It was not a question. It did not hold the air of a question, but the firmness of a statement, hard and cold and leaving no room for argument. The should-have-been Nation took a deep breath and re-affirmed his stance, looking America dead in the eye. He was not about to move.

"Kurdistan, please get out of the way. We don't want to hurt you," England tried to reason. But in the vast spectrum of people in which Kurdistan had no trust, England was perhaps the only one in which Kurdistan had absolutely no faith. He trusted the man's words no more than the hand trusts the open blade. He did not move.

Kurdistan looked past the two leading Nations in all this, expanded his vision to look past them. He almost fell over from the shock: _they were all there_. Nearly every Arab state stood behind America and England as if it were natural, as if they held no qualms about supporting, as they so eloquently put it,_ "the infidels"_. Their hypocrisy unnerved him.

"Kid," Syria deadpanned. "Move out the way."

"No."

"Don't make alluh this harder than it needsta be," Turkey tried.

"No."

"He hurt you, too, if I'm not mistaken," Libya mentioned. "Why are you defending him?"

Kurdistan didn't answer, didn't move an inch from where he stood.

"Please. It's all for the best. We don't want to hurt you. We only want Iraq." Armenia explained.

"I know."

"They why don't you just move out of the way?" Saudi Arabia probed.

"Because."

"Because _what?"_

"Because! I understand this little thing that seems to have eluded you all. Did it ever occur to any of you that Iraq didn't want to do anything that he did?" he screamed out into the crowd before him. "You weren't with him every day! None of you ever saw how the boss manipulated him and tricked him and had him doing mental acrobats just so he could advance in his own goals. Iraq _never cared enough_ about Iran to go to war, all their qualms where insignificant and even they didn't take them seriously anymore. Didn't any of you notice that they only went to war once Mr. Saddam came to power?" Kurdistan dropped his arms, and his hands balled up to fists at his sides. He was not done. "And Kuwait. Kuwait is Iraq's _little brother._ They grew up together and confided in each other and were always close. Of course, Iraq didn't like that Kuwait didn't want to live with him, but he let his brother be for _over_ _50 years_. But now that we've lost to Iran, or had a ceasefire or whatever, of course Mr. Saddam wanted Kuwait in our house, to control his oil and have more access to the Gulf. That's why he made Iraq kidnap him! What, did you all think that Iraq just turned evil overnight?" the young region dropped his gaze to the floor, and added in in a much less confident tone, "A-And even with me… Iraq has always been mean to me, but never like he has once Mr. Saddam became our boss. Our relationship was even improving, but then… he…" Kurdistan quickly brought up a hand and wiped away that one tear that escaped. "I was poisoned and a lot of my people have died, and I have all these scars on my neck, but even then I could always tell that Iraq didn't want to do any of it. His face was always blank, but he was begging me to forgive him with his eyes." His head shot back up, his bloodshot eyes wide and angry. "If I saw all of that, what made the lot of you so blind!"

All was quiet for only a moment before America put on an eerie smile and piped up, "Well, looks like Finland isn't the only Nation out there who has some Stockholm Syndrome in him!" He aimed the machine gun that he was carrying at Kurdistan. "Go on, Kurdie Birdie. Fly away somewhere safe, before I shoot you out of the air and send you down to hell."

Kurdistan stared at the gun for a moment, and then smiled, of all things. "I'm not afraid of that. If you seriously think that this is the first time someone has pointed one of those at me, then you really don't know me that well." His smile grew. "And 'send me to hell'? But, haven't you heard that I'm going to heaven?"

America's smile left in a liquidated fashion. "I'm serious, kid. Move or I'll make you move. Tell me, is Iraq really worth it?"

"Yeah, of course." Kurdistan closed his eyes, and for a moment he almost seemed angelic. "And if you actually did love him, you would known that Iraq is worth any punishment, anytime."

Without another word said, America fired.

* * *

"Someday, you'll be a beautiful country again."

Kurdistan said this in full confidence, sometime in February 2011. He was looking Iraq dead in the eyes as he told him this, something he hadn't been able to do in years. They stood in a sea of carnage and destruction, burnt cars and police tape. Iraq himself was still just as stunning as he had always been, but in a different light. He was beautiful in a broken sort of way, the horror of all that was happening shining through his eyes, burning through the emptiness of his smile. For once, Kurdistan was actually doing better than Iraq, but he knew that the Nation before him would eventually rise through the ashes, just as he always had. He would shine again and he would be beautiful, perhaps not in the same way he had been 30 years ago, but not broken-beautiful, either. No, he would be pieced-back-together amazing, a stainless glass Catholic-church-window that glowed red and blue and yellow and green. A patchwork of experience.

And the patchwork said, "Yeah. Maybe someday, you'll be a beautiful country, too."

Iraq then turned on his heel and sped away before Kurdistan could question that.

* * *

_The two Nations looked out upon their cities, Baghdad and Mosel, watched their people go abou__t their daily lives. All was normal. There were no insurgency attacks, no suicide bombings, no checkpoints. The cloud of fear that once shadowed the two metropolitan areas was long gone. The days in which the two capitals were under constant attack seemed far away. _

_Iraq glanced over at Kurdistan for a brief moment. It still amazed him how tall the Kurd had gotten, but then again, independence often did that, induced growth spurts and sudden puberty. With the wind blowing through his hair like that, the way love still seemed to glisten off his skin after all that had happened… Iraq truly had no idea why he had ever given into his old boss, why he ever hurt his then-autonomous-region all those years ago. How could he not have realized how beautiful Kurdistan was?_

"_I'm glad you survived," Iraq admitted, before he could stop himself. _

_Kurdistan turned to look at him, and remained quiet for a moment, as if stunned that Iraq would ever say such a thing. Then, he smiled. "I'm glad you survived, too."_

_

* * *

_

**A/N:** Okay, done. Notes:

Iraq invaded Iran in 1980 because of Iran's theocratic revolution, border qualms, disputes over oil, long-standing bad blood between the two, and because Iran was accused of trying to assassinate Iraq's Iranian Ambassador. Saddam Hussein had all of these chemical weapons at his disposal and was itching to use them. He tried using them against the Iranians, but the thing about chemical weapons is that you need the perfect weather for them, or else they don't work (as seen in the only other war in which these types of weapons were used, WWI). However, Iraq also had nuclear facilities, to build atomic bombs, and many believe that if they had been developed to full capacity during the war, that Saddam Hussein would have used them against Iran.

Despite the shortcomings of chemical weapons, they can still be used quite… effectively, when the conditions are right. Take the Kurds in the north. As part of the genocide, chemical weapons were used systematically against the Kurdish population and it lead to… devastating results. Absolutely devastating. These events would come to be known as the Anfal Campaign. Through the worst of Anfal, scores of Iraqi Kurds escaped from Iraq and went to Turkey, Syria, and Iran.

As for the 2003 invasion… I think I pretty much turned America into a yandere when it comes to Iraq. I told you things would get worse for them. Back in 2003, America invaded Iraq on claims that Iraq was still secretly developing nuclear bombs even after the U.N. mandated that he get rid of the materials needed to make atomic weapons. Saddam Hussein claimed on multiple occasions that he did, in fact, destroy the nuclear materials in Iraq's possession, but whenever the U.N. wanted to send someone over to see if this was true, they would always be denied access into the country. Obviously, this looked extremely suspicious, and thus the US invaded Iraq. However, once Hussein had been ousted and U.N. inspectors were free to check for nuclear facilities, they found _none._ Though, many find the whole nuclear bombs excuse to be bullshit, and to an extent, it is (on those same grounds, then we should have also invaded Iran and North Korea). It's now pretty much an open fact that America also invaded Iraq in part because they wanted to turn Iraq into a democracy, in hopes that it would inspire other Middle Eastern Nations to look towards democracy as well. As a result of everything, Iraq is actually now a (fragile and dysfunctional) democracy. In addition, many American's have either thought or still think that Iraq and Saddam Hussein had something to do with 9/11, when in fact neither the government or any Iraqi national had been involved in the attacks. Just a common misconception, I guess, seeing the war's closeness in time frame, and Saddam Hussein's well-known evil nature.

In 1991, Iraq invaded Kuwait. This goes back a while: during the Ottoman Empire days, Iraq and Kuwait were treated as one providence. However, once the OE collapsed, Kuwait declared himself independent of not only Turkey but Iraq as well. This didn't sit well with Iraq, mostly because Kuwait blocks Iraq's access to the Arabian/Persian Gulf (Iraq is nearly landlocked because of it) and because nearly all of Kuwait is one big oil field. Iraq always considered Kuwait to be his 19th rouge providence, but in that same breath, only violated Kuwait's rights as an independent republic when the war with Iran ended. The Iraq-Iran War left Iraq in a horrible place economically, drained of resources and deeply in debt to just about every country in the Middle East, and America. Saddam Hussein got it in his mind that invading Kuwait would solve all of these problems.

As a result, 33 countries came to Kuwait's aid, led by America and including many of Iraq's former allies in his war against Iran. Needless to say, Iraq lost, Kuwait was free again, and both Iraq and (Iraqi) Kurdistan suffered the consequences of Saddam Hussein's idiocy. Iraq pretty much went on a downward spiral after that, a dissent that hasn't quite ended but has only taken a different form.

As for Kurdistan's independence… it's something that the Kurds still wants, obviously. Iraq hasn't shown any explicit signs of letting Kurdistan go, but he seems to be being a bit nicer to him. One of the few successes of the American invasion of Iraq is the new Iraqi constitution, which mandates that equal rights _must_ be given to the Kurds, placing Kurdish as one of the official languages of Iraq, and giving Kurdistan much more political freedom than before. So maybe, Kurdistan has some glimmer of hope for obtaining independence without any bloodshed. Maybe. (I really hope so).

So, yeah. Review, yall :3


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